


patience and time

by tigriswolf



Series: Alternate Universe [295]
Category: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Highlander: The Series, Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Walkabout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: You have a gift, my dear, he tells her on a battlefield, her army on one side and his brothers on the other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title: patience and time  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: mostly takes place during Xena; references to violence/death. A bit of primordial Methos.  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PGish  
> Wordcount: 1500  
> Point of view: third  
> Note: title from this quote—The two most powerful warriors are patience and time. (Leo Tolstoy)

_You have a gift, my dear_ , he tells her on a battlefield, her army on one side and his brothers on the other. 

Her lip curls as she bares her teeth and he laughs, sharp and cold, as his pale mare turns to gallop away. 

_We do not retreat!_ Kronos growls, bloodlust risen high, Silas and Caspian waiting for the word to continue the slaughter. 

_It is not retreat,_ Methos assures them, glancing back at the warrior who has not looked away from them. 

_Then what is it?_ Kronos demands. He shares a name with a god of this land, Methos notes. Has he ever wondered how Methos chose it for him? Why? Caspian came to them already named, but Methos named both Kronos and Silas. 

_We must rest our horses,_ Methos says. Silas nods immediately. 

Kronos glares at them both but there is no more argument. 

.

They meet again, of course. He drops Kronos down a well, leaves Caspian and Silas to fend for themselves, and doesn’t stop to consider how their slaves will fare, with Caspian—life is hard, and it will be up to them to survive without the level-headed Horseman. 

At the crest of the hill, he pauses. Turns back to stare at their camp, at the horses penned. He whistles once, twice. The pale mare raises her head, so he continues on. 

His horse catches up to him before the next hill. 

It is weeks before he wanders through a land murmuring of a warrior woman who has the power of a god. Who cannot be defeated. Who once terrified nations but now defends those in need. 

He laughs, eating in a tavern, but he listens to the stories. Asks questions. 

“Has she a name, this warrior woman?” he queries as he rises from his seat, plate empty. 

“Xena,” one of the men answers. His eyes linger on the sword strapped across Methos’ back. “You’d be better off not trying her, traveler.”

He laughs again. “I’ve no intention of seeking her out.”

It is the truth, when he says it. But he stays in those lands of petty gods and warlords, pretending he wasn’t once one of the worst, couldn’t become one again as easy as hefting a sword or riding a horse, and though there are few who would recognize him, he knows that she will. 

And she does, of course. 

.

He comes to a crossroads: there is an ocean to one side and mountains the other. “What d’ya think?” he asks the pale mare, patting her shoulder. 

She tosses her head and goes right. He settles onto her back, letting her set the pace, and watches the scenery. It is beautiful, this land. It reminds him of his early days, before he realized what he was, his first life—if life it can truly be called. 

There is shouting ahead. Screams. Swords clashing. And the faint thrum in his mind that means an immortal that has yet to die. As they turn the bend, he sees bandits attacking a wagon, a woman defending children, men dying on the grass. Prayers are murmured, wept. 

And then an odd cry fills the air as the thrum builds, and then she is among them, the warrior woman. A small blonde follows in her wake, wielding a staff. 

He slides off his horse and settles in to watch. 

.

It is over quickly. Xena goes to the wounded men while the blonde checks on the children. Methos approaches, mostly out of curiosity. Mortals can change, of course, but he’s never seen such a change before. He wouldn’t have imagined that woman who led an army against the 4 Horsemen could become such a staunch protector of the weak, could be a healer of any sort. 

“Stop lurking and come help,” she calls, crouched on the ground beside a dying merchant. 

He laughs but does. 

.

“Why are you here?” she asks, bandaging a man barely out of childhood. Methos has collected the bandits’ horses and the pale mare is keeping them near the two still hitched to the wagon, who he is trying to soothe. He’s never been as good with horses as Silas. 

“I grew bored,” he says, turning from the geldings to pat his beloved girl. “Thought I’d see what there is in the world.” 

Xena eyes him warily as she rises. The blonde steps in to ask softly, “Xena, who is he?” 

“I’m a traveler,” he says, smiling just a little. 

“See to it that’s all you are,” Xena finally says, command in the tone. 

“Of course, my dear,” he says, with the same cadence he used once on a battlefield. 

She tenses, eyes narrowing, but he leaps onto the pale mare and doesn’t look back as she trots away. 

.

 _This isn’t your land,_ the god says. He’s powerfully built, trying to intimidate in dark leather. He stinks of blood, stained with it. 

_All lands are mine_ , Methos tells him. The mare ignores him. 

_You should be careful how you speak to a god,_ the god says, stepping into the mare’s way. 

She stops, ears flicking, and Methos gently strokes her shoulder. He slides off her back to stride to the god, who glowers at him like Methos should be afraid, should cower away. 

_I speak to a god as I speak to everything else,_ Methos says. There are things older than gods. The mare snorts softly, glistening in sunlight. The god glances at her and his eyes widen. 

_They don’t exist_ , he murmurs as he looks back to Methos. 

Methos laughs, slouching slightly. _You’ve chosen the warrior and I’ll stay away this life. But you’d best clear my path._

The god tilts his head, gaze sharpening. _What are you?_ he asks, the words soft but threaded with contemplation, with danger. Mortals would tremble at that tone. 

_None of your concern,_ Methos says. 

The god nods sharply and disappears in a showy display. Methos laughs, pats the mare’s neck, and continues on, walking beside her in order to stretch his legs. 

He feels various gods peek in at him and ignores them all. 

.

He travels. Scatters journals around. Takes a few heads when challenged. Teaches a few infants how to survive. Possibly rules a nation or two. Maybe destroys a few. 

He gets bored and he moves on. The pale mare stays with him, eyes warm and dark. None recognize her for what she is. Not even Silas had. 

Methos is in a library in Alexandria when he feels the thrum of an immortal. “This is holy ground,” he calls without looking away from the scroll. 

“I’m not here to fight,” is the reply—a woman, tired. He looks up and there she is, the warrior claimed by a war god. 

“They called you the Destroyer of Nations,” Methos says, gently rerolling the scroll. “And you don’t want to fight?” 

“I can’t die,” she says, sounding so lost, so weary. “I’ve tried. The gods are gone. Hercules, Gabrielle, they’re _gone_. But I’m not.” 

He rises to his feet and slowly approaches her. There’s a sword on her back but she isn’t wearing any armor. Just a dirty tunic under a dirty robe. 

Methos has not kept track of time; there is no point, anymore. “You need a teacher,” he says. “A purpose, perhaps?” 

They are the same height and he gazes into her eyes. “Come, my dear,” he says, slowly stepping around her. She spins to follow, neither of them looking away. “First, I think, a luxurious bath for you. And then, a long rest. But after that, I’ll show you how to live again.” 

.

Once, there had been four brothers, who rode out of the sun. Three of them were immortal yet young. One of them was neither of those things. 

“What are you?” Xena asks as Methos sets a plate of food in front of her. 

“A remnant,” he says. Outside, the pale mare laughs. Xena just frowns before falling on the food like she hasn’t eaten in months. She looks like she hasn’t. 

“What am I?” she asks once the food is gone. 

“You are immortal.” She shakes her head but listens as he tells her the story of her people. He sends her to bed after the basics and though he knows she doesn’t trust him, she falls asleep easily. 

She is safe in his care; all of his students are, unless they try for his head. 

Outside, the pale mare waits. He strokes her cheek and leans into her side. Above them, the stars gleam. 

.

 _You have a gift, my dear,_ Methos once told Xena on a battlefield. 

_You still seek to collect them about you again,_ the pale mare whispers. She alone has ever seen him true. 

_We were four_ , Methos says. _We will be on another day._

The mare sighs, resting her head on his shoulder. _You will find your own destruction._

He laughs. _After all this time, you should know me better than that._

She doesn’t answer but she also doesn’t pull away.


End file.
